


Varric Tethras: Rogue, Storyteller and, Occasionally, Unwelcome Tagalong

by Miss_Apocalypto



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Apologies, Battle, Betrayal, Card Games, Denial of Feelings, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, F/M, Fear of Death, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Guilt, Lies, Minor Injuries, Multi, Other, Past Relationship(s), Rescue, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Apocalypto/pseuds/Miss_Apocalypto
Summary: Occasionally, I get a Varric Tethras itch and I just can't help myself. This is my one-shot dump for all the random moments I think about him...it usually includes Cassandra, too.





	1. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric teaches Cassandra how to play Wicked Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ or any of the lovely characters that live in that universe. BioWare does and I'm just playing in their sandbox.

Varric stared down at the cards laid across the bench between his legs and let out a long, theatric sigh before returning his gaze to the woman who straddled the opposite side of the bench and had played the hand: the Seeker. She wore her usual, hard look; the closed one. The one that was possibly more effective than the armor she wore into battle which she wasn’t wearing now. Not at camp. She was very particular about servicing and maintaining her gear so it had already been removed to air out before she set to cleaning and oiling it. She liked to spend the interim learning to play Wicked Grace from him. _Well…_ maybe ‘liked’ was a strong word. More like, _tolerated_.

But, she was absolute garbage at cards. Varric didn’t want to tell her because their nightly game was becoming routine for him and he liked routine, but he was certain she was beyond his help. He had learned a lot from playing against her, though. More than he had bargained for, really. More about her. They didn’t chat about anything substantial while they played; in fact, they hardly spoke at all unless it was about the values and combinations of certain cards. No, all the intelligence Varric had gleaned came entirely from her facial expressions.

He’d never thought of her as a particularly expressive woman. In variety, not intensity because she was undoubtedly _intense_. She had an astonishing range of disgusted or disgruntled grunts from mild disapproval to near murderous rage. He’d already discovered and catalogued those on the boat ride to Ferelden, but her face had always seemed perpetually angry. An impenetrable mask of intimidation. Now, he knew how wrong he’d been.

Playing cards provided the opportunity and permission to scrutinize every detail of her expression and behavior in search of a tell that he could exploit without it being bizarre or uncomfortable for him to stare for so long. And he found, oddly enough, that she was very subtle. Again, not a word he would have used to describe the Seeker before. There had been nothing subtle about the way she dragged him out of The Hanged Man for interrogation. The interrogation itself had been very straight forward; she had made no attempt to word her questions just so in order to trip him up or catch him in a lie. In fact, she hadn’t rightly asked any questions, at all. Just a bunch of demands on pain of torture. The threat of it, at least. And there was definitely nothing subtle about kidnapping him from Kirkwall. The way she fought. The shouting, the grunting, the shear terrifying strength. How she spoke, the thickness of her accent, the way she approached just about any situation. Nor was she even receptive of nuance. Often Varric’s sly comments zipped by her, unnoticed. Not because she was unintelligent; the woman was very well educated, very calculated, very tactical, but she was entirely closed off and largely immune to what many considered to be Varric’s charms. Just everything about her. Blunt. Abrupt. Acerbic. _Not_ subtle.

And yet, somehow, she was. Case in point, the look she was giving him now. To the untrained eye that hadn’t been spending almost every night of the last couple of weeks playing cards with her and staring at her face, it would appear that she was giving the standard Seeker sneer. Varric knew better. She was chewing on the inside of her lip which meant she wasn’t sure about the hand she just played. Her brow was slightly drawn in, not in the typical scowl, but in askance, waiting for his guidance since he was her teacher in this matter. But the real giveaway was the eyes. Slightly rounded, enough to take out the bite of her usual glare. It was a difference that was more felt than directly observed. Such a small—dare he even say it?— _delicate_?—expression.

“Well?” she prompted, growing impatient at his prolonged silence, “Did I win?” Her voice was harsh and demanding. _Ah, good ol’ Seeker._

He looked at his cards and sighed again, shaking his head. “Yes, Seeker. You won,” he lied, deciding that he couldn’t possibly make her understanding of Wicked Grace—or lack thereof—any worse than it already was.

She surprised him then by smiling openly. Such a rare sight drew a similar expression across his face in return. It was like looking at another woman, altogether. “You are a terrible liar,” she accused as she scooped up the cards in her strong, callused hands to shuffle and deal the next game.

Varric chuckled harshly. “How would you know?” he asked pointedly, his lips pursed with amusement.

The Seeker sighed. “You have a tell,” she informed him almost matter-of-factly.

The rogue was actually intrigued now. “Oh?” he said, “This I gotta hear.”

“You do not blink when you are lying,” she said simply, as she shuffled the cards in her hands, losing a few in the process, “I noticed it in Kirkwall. You did not blink when you were _embellishing_ the Champion’s tale.”

Varric actually felt a little thrill of fear run through his body at her words and laughed nervously. He had noticed that about himself too and had done his best to remember to blink during her interrogation, but apparently he hadn’t done it enough. “And here I thought you were just _so_ captivated by Hawke’s story that you couldn’t take your eyes off of me,” he joked, “But you were actually figuring me out. Not bad, Seeker.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replied with the barest of smiles lifting the corners of her mouth as she flicked the cards between them, dealing the next hand, “But I would be a poor Seeker if I simply demanded answers and expected you tell me the truth.”

Varric grimaced behind his cards, but forced a snort of laughter. “Can’t pull the wool over your eyes,” he agreed as he rearranged his cards before placing them neatly on the bench before him, face down. He watched the Seeker examine her hand. How her dark eyes bounced from one card to the next, evaluating each value and struggling to arrange a winning play out of what was largely nonsense to her. She was chewing on her lip again, but there was an excited tap in her foot so she must have thought she might have something.

He preferred her like this. Almost friendly and open enough for him to be able to read her. She wasn’t a bad person, even if she had dragged him from the comfort of his home. She had only done what she thought was necessary for the greater good. He wasn’t so childish that he couldn’t see that, but that didn’t mean he had to like it or agree. Besides, he had done the same, more or less: did what was necessary to protect his friend. “Varric?” the Seeker said in a tone that suggested she had said his name more than once, “Stay?”

He inhaled sharply as if waking from a nap and glanced at his cards again. “I’ll stay,” he answered once he realized what she was asking. _It’s the least I can do,_ he thought. He watched her discard a Serpent of Deceit and his hand twitched, wanting to snatch it the second she wasn’t looking so he could complete his four of a kind, but he didn’t. He wasn’t trying to pull those sorts of tricks with her because it would only complicate a game that she was already struggling to learn to play _without_ the rules being violated. In the end, that was why she was so terrible at cards. Wicked Grace required a degree of deception the Seeker simply could not match; she just didn’t have it in her.

They went back and forth a few more times in silence. Varric continuing to sit on his hand in an effort to give the Seeker time to make something out of hers, but from the looks of her discards, she was already butchering it. When the Angel of Death was drawn, they laid down their hands. She was all Virtue and he was all Vice. _How appropriate._ But no matching pairs in her hand meant Varric had won again. He frowned. _Sorry, Seeker,_ he thought; his guilt having nothing to do with cards, _It was nothing personal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, I haven't fully committed to making the relationship between Varric and Cassandra romantic. I think a lot of things about each character have to change in order to make that something even within the realm of possibility, but I applaud Cassarric Shippers who try. Some of them even do it very well. I'm more a fan of the gray, hazy, is it/isn't it, will they/won't they arrangement. So, that's what I run with. They have moments that could almost be romantic, but maybe that's our fault for defining friendships and relationships in certain terms. I leave it to your imagination.
> 
> **Side note:** Hands down, my personal favorite Cassarric Ship Fic is [**Seek and You Shall Find**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338348) by [**Melicious_Intent**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melicious_Intent)  
>  should anyone be curious. Great angst. If you haven't read it yet, I'd highly recommend you do.


	2. Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra saves Varric's life and he scrambles to return the favor. Set during the Battle of Haven when the Herald and her team go out to distract Corypheus long enough for the citizens of Haven to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Quick headcannon explanation:** This actually came out of an attempt to write a full-blown FanFic that I have not completed, so there are characters and storylines that are relevant to _this_ in order for it to make sense, so here goes...
> 
> "Apples" is Varric's nickname for the roguish Lady Jacqueline Rose Trevelyan who was late travelling to the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes on behalf of her elder sister; a tardiness that saved her life. She was in Haven when the Temple exploded and helped Inquisition forces secure Haven before joining Cullen to retake the Temple itself. She eventually romances Cullen because I can't and I've wanted him for two games, so... Also, she super loves apples which is how the nickname came about.
> 
> "Bright Eyes" is Varric's nickname for Clan Lavellan's First, Revasera, who has the misfortune of also being the Herald of Andraste. Her and Jack are fast friends; it's adorbs. Her skill set includes skills and abilities I liked from previous games to give Dalish magic more shape and oomph since she was going to kicking so much demon ass. She eventually romances Solas because I wanted to torture myself. Also, she has bright ass green eyes hence the nickname.

Varric was not pleased to see Apples tearing down the road toward them, her face all twisted and desperate. She looked like she was about to deliver bad news—or offer herself up as a sacrifice. Definitely the latter. He knew she felt responsible for the attack on Haven; he’d heard what she said to Curly. Those cheeky quips and saucy smiles of hers were all a mask to hide that tender, bleeding heart of hers. She was no more capable of letting Bright Eyes pay what she perceived as the price for her mistake than Bright Eyes was capable of allowing Apples to take her place.

Bright Eyes didn’t appear to be happy to see her either and Varric could almost hear the words, ‘ _Go back to the chapel!_ ’ forming on her tongue before she spoke them aloud. Only it came out more “GET DOWN!” than ‘ _Go back!_ ’ because the fucking Archdemon they had been trying to distract chose right then to come swooping out of the sky. And swooping was never good.

It was chaos after that. A breeze of magic announced Chuckles’ Fadewalk to safety. Bright Eyes slipped beneath the earth to pop up closer to the trebuchet, and Varric and the Seeker dove in different directions to avoid being crushed beneath the dragon’s claws. For the most part, everyone survived the landing unharmed—aside from a bruise that Varric was sure was blooming on his knee when he struck a rock as he rolled out of the dragon’s path. They each looked to those closest to them, a silent rollcall, and that’s when they all realized that a very pissed off Archdemon stood between them and the Herald, herself.

Then the dragon swiped its tail at them all. Right in that dazed moment when everyone was blinking around, surprised they had managed not to get killed and checking to make sure they still had all their limbs in working order. When they were just beginning to formulate a plan to get to Bright Eyes. The thick column of muscle, bone, and Blighted flesh hurtled toward them and before Varric could shout for everyone to hit the dirt, a pair of rough hands gripped the back of his duster and threw him to the ground. He didn’t see his rescuer, but it could only be one person and the sound of the dragon’s tail and a metal plate colliding forcefully with a sickening crunch and a low grunt of pain confirmed her identity. He turned his face in the dirt in time to see the Seeker land several feet away, sprawled and motionless.

“Shit,” he breathed into the mud before jumping to his feet and scurrying toward her. He slid to a halt on his knees at her side, holstering Bianca to free up his hands. To do what? He didn’t know. He knew nothing of any healing arts; whether it be spells or needles, he was at a loss. And he didn’t even know what to make of what lay on the ground in front of him. Mostly, the Seeker looked fine. None of her limbs appeared noticeably broken and she wasn’t bleeding as far as he could see. The obvious damage was to her armor. Her breastplate had been knocked concave by the force of the tail striking her. “Come on, Seeker,” he said, taking a stab at sounding unconcerned, “On your feet.”

But she wasn’t moving. She didn’t so much as twitch. He tried shaking her shoulder, but she didn’t budge. “Seeker?” Nothing. Nervously, he leaned forward and bent his ear to her mouth and nose. She wasn’t breathing. _Holy Andraste’s tits! She’s not breathing!_ Panic began to leech into his bones at the thought of her being dead. That she had given her life to save him. _No!_ he chastised himself, _She can’t be dead!_ It occurred to him then, in the way a violent sea strikes a rocky shore, that the Seeker—despite being completely insufferable and responsible for his misery for the last couple of months—was someone he wanted very much to keep alive. That he actually _cared_ what happened to her and not in the passive way good people comment on how sad some minor acquaintance’s death had been, but in the way that would have him adding her demise to the list of crimes he laid against himself already. In the way that mattered. It was one hell of an inconvenient moment to realize that the Seeker, who he thought was about as friendly as a grizzly bear, had grown on him.

“Cass!” he nearly shouted, her name feeling foreign and forbidden in his mouth, “Shit! Cass! Wake up! You’re too stubborn to die!” But she was giving it one hell of a good try. A stream of expletives soared out of his mouth as his mind raced for something he could do to give the Seeker a better fighting chance. That’s when he heard her take a small, rasping breath in the back of her throat, incomplete like she was _struggling_ to breathe, but not stopped altogether. _The fucking armor!_ It must have bent far enough to constrict her chest. Hurriedly, he fumbled with the buckles on her armor, trying to pry it from her body as quickly as possible, but it felt like it was taking too long so he pulled his knife from his boot and sliced through the straps on either side.

The instant the pressure was released, the Seeker took a big gasping breath, her dark, brown eyes flying open, wide. Varric hefted the breastplate off her and chuckled with relief. “You gave me a scare there,” he informed her, patting her shoulder companionably.

She gulped down more air for a few heartbeats before turning those hard eyes on him. Only they weren’t hard this time. Her expression was noticeably softer. Grateful. _Thanks_ , it seemed to say with such sincerity, nothing need be spoken aloud. But it was, of course, and with all the usual grace and charm the Seeker typically possessed. “Duck next time,” she said breathlessly, “I cannot be there to protect you always.”

He frowned and stood to give her some breathing room. “You’re welcome, Cassandra,” he replied dryly, wanting to make a barb at her for dragging him all the way from Kirkwall as he usually did whenever she was short with him—which was nearly always. But he didn’t. He swallowed it instead because it occurred to him that perhaps the Seeker had simply said what she thought was more important. His safety over gratitude. She was nothing if not practical and efficient. She did not want for unnecessary luxury or niceties in life, in deed, or in conversation. A core reason why their personalities rubbed each other raw. So maybe saying ‘Thank you’ was too _frivolous_ when she could spend her words on her concern for his well-being, instead. Maybe constructive—albeit, brutally honest—criticism was the only way Cassandra Pentaghast knew how to say, ‘ _I care what happens to you, too._ ’ Or maybe he was making it all up and she was just the frigid bitch he had always thought her to be. _Yep, that’s definitely it_ , but he didn’t really think so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too confusing with the extra characters who haven't really been explained or fleshed out since this is just a chunk out of a larger work. But I did write this _first_ as a one-shot before adding Jack into the mix.


	3. Standard Varric Tethras Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric goes to _apologize_ to Cassandra for lying to her about Hawke...again.
> 
> Set after the first confrontation with Cassandra in which the Herald intervenes. I just felt like there was so much more to say there between Varric and Cassandra that the Herald really needed to butt out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Quick Headcannon Explanation:** Okay, same situation as the previous one-shot, but with something extra...
> 
> "Mockingbird" is Varric's nickname for Miriam Hawke. They are besties forever because she's sly and sarcastic just like him. Just before the events of this bit, Varric has had a particularly long night at the tavern with homegirl because she likely has a drinking problem and he didn't want to leave her alone with Cullen and Jack. She romanced Anders because I love doomed relationships, apparently/I accidently romanced him during my playthrough and just couldn't get over that first kiss. *le sigh* She's pissed about him blowing up a Chantry, but keeps the relationship, and sides with the mages. Also, just for saucy fun, before she hooked up with Anders, she was boinking Cullen in the alleyways near the Hanged Man because they were both broken people using each other to feel a little less broken, even if it was only for a few brief moments.

Varric stared at the expressionless planks of the door and willed them to give a definitive answer to his current quandary: should he or shouldn’t he? It was the same damn question he had been thinking about all damn night. He didn’t know how it crept into his mind. Maker knows he should have been more invested in watching Mockingbird and Apples make fools of themselves. Especially Hawke. He was worried about her. It made sense for Jack to get jealous. She actually _cared_ about Curly, but Hawke was just looking for someone to help her forget her broken heart. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. And yet, around his fifth ale and their twentieth story, a completely different train of thought barreled through his mind.

So now, here he was, standing outside her door trying to gather up the courage required to walk inside and tell her how he felt. It was possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. Or the best. That was the problem with drunken schemes. You never knew until afterward. He sighed and rubbed his face. _Maker, this was stupid_ , he thought, _I should just go to bed before I do something I regret._ He took a step away, hoping that putting distance between himself and her door would help, but it seemed to have the opposite effect because in the next second, his hand was on the latch and he was stepping inside.

It was dim, but for the forge that perpetually smoldered. Her corner of the loft above was dark. Perhaps she wasn’t there or had already gone to bed. As he began to list the numerous reasons the Seeker—Cassandra—could be just about anywhere else, he heard rustling against the floorboards and then a candle flared to life. Cassandra peered over the railing to see who had come into what, for all intents and purposes, had become her space. Her eyes narrowed when she saw him. “Why are you here, Varric?” she demanded, her voice betraying no signs of grogginess though he was halfway certain he must have awakened her from a dead sleep.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he replied as if it were obvious.

“I think we have done enough talking for one day, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to say what I really wanted to say—what you deserved to hear.”

Her head cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”

Varric looked up at her, his expression flat. “You gonna make me say it from down here? Should I come up…? Or…?”

Cassandra looked as if she was considering her options. “I will come down to you,” she said finally and a few moments later she was soaring down the stairs in her brusque, efficient way. She wore a loose tunic sloppily tucked into a pair of leather breaches she had obviously tugged on seconds before lighting the candle. Her hair was slightly mussed from sleep and she looked, well, _exhausted_. Varric actually felt a pang of guilt for having awakened her. She obviously needed rest. “What was it you wanted to say?” she asked forcefully, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering down at him.

Varric sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster.

It was enough to give Cassandra pause and she looked at him curiously. “Go on.”

“When you took me in for questioning, I told you the truth—mostly…”

“Mostly?” she repeated.

Varric shrugged. “I _may_ have embellished a little here and there just to make the story a little better,” he admitted, “Maybe a few extra darkspawn here and a bigger dragon there. But the only thing I outright lied about was not knowing where Hawke was.”

“That was the single most important detail! The entire reason I was interrogating you in the first place!”

“I know!” he assured her, “I get that you had this whole agenda and you wanted Hawke to lead the negotiations or even lead the Inquisition. I get it now which is why Hawke is here _now_. But I didn’t get it then. When you first dragged my ass out of the Hanged Man, you were just some snotty Seeker who demanded answers without giving me any reason other than the constant threat of book stabbing.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “It was _one_ time! Will you let that go already?”

“It was my favorite copy!” he insisted, but then he calmed himself and took a steadying breath, “But that’s neither here nor there. What I really came here to say is this: I’m sorry I lied to you, Cassandra, but when I lied to you, I lied to a stranger to protect my friend. What guarantee did I have that you wouldn’t hunt her down and kill her like a crazy Meredith incarnate? I saw how easy it was to lay blame on a whole group of people who didn’t deserve it all because of the actions of one man whose single thread of commonality was an ability to throw fireballs. How could I be certain you wouldn’t hunt down and murder one of the few people in all of Thedus I would pawn _Bianca_ off to raise enough ransom money to save if I had to?”

“I would never…!” Cassandra began.

“I know you wouldn’t! _Now_!” he interrupted, frustrated, “But—were you not listening when I told you Hawke’s story?”

“Of course I was listening!” she scoffed defensively, “Her story was inspiring. That’s why we wanted her.”

“If you heard that clusterfuck of shitty things happening to good people and thought you were hearing the tale of a hero, then you _weren’t_ listening,” he replied hotly, “There was nothing glorious about the things we did, the shit we saw, or the blood we shed. Hawke may be a fucking hero, but she didn’t live a hero’s life. Everything she ever fought for either resents her, died, or blew up a Chantry. Every moment of her life, there was always someone there waiting to change her, chain her, use her, kill her, drain her until there was nothing left. I wasn’t about to let you do it too.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have more faith in your friend, Varric,” Cassandra snapped, “You know better than anyone what she’s capable of and still you think she needs your protection?”

Varric shook his head and rubbed his face wearily. “You’re still not listening,” he insisted, “Hawke’s the kind of person to see a burning building and go running _toward_ it. Sometimes she needs someone there to make sure she doesn’t get burned. I don’t know if it’s heroic or suicidal or a little of both, but isn’t that the sort of person you want to keep alive? She’s the best damn friend I’ve ever had, so yeah, when you asked where she was, I lied through my teeth and I would do it again.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought this was an apology,” she pointed out.

“It is.”

“Strange, it sounded like you just said you were sorry but you would do it again.”

“Pretty standard Varric Tethras apology, actually.”

Cassandra made a sound of disgust and turned to leave. “I don’t know why I bothered to come down here. This is ridiculous.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “I _am_ sorry, for what it’s worth, Cassandra,” he said softly, “I don’t— _like_ —upsetting you and not just because it’s scary when you’re taking a swing at me. But because…” he trailed off. _Come on Tethras, you can do this,_ he psyched himself up mentally. “Because if someone were to kidnap me right now and demand to know where you were, I wouldn’t tell them a damn thing.” Cassandra paused at the bottom of the stairs, but said nothing. Varric sighed. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say, so—good night. Sorry for bothering you—I won’t do _that_ again.”

He was about to leave when Cassandra spoke to him. “I’m not angry that you lied to me,” she admitted, “Of course you lied to me. If there was one thing that was very obvious while you were telling me your story, Varric, it was how much you cared about Hawke. I’m angry that I believed it. That I failed to see the lie. It was my duty and I failed. Maybe things would have been different if I had succeeded. Maybe they wouldn’t be. I don’t know. We’ll never know. And it isn’t fair of me to take it out on you.”

Varric hesitated and then he turned to look at Cassandra who looked as if she were clinging to the railing of the staircase for dear life. “Was that…an apology?” he asked.

Cassandra actually looked amused. “I’m sorry, Varric, for taking a swing at you,” she said, “But I’ll probably do it again.”

“That might be the single most amusing thing you have ever said.”

“And I meant every word of it.”

Varric chuckled. “Good night, Seeker,” he said, “I’ve had a lot to drink, so I might not remember this in the morning, but know that Drunk Varric is very glad to count you amongst his friends.”

Cassandra laughed. “Good night, Drunk Varric,” she said, “I will try not to take anything Sober Varric says too seriously.”

“Don’t do that. You’ll ruin the whole dynamic.”

“Go to bed, Varric,” she said firmly, but not unkindly. And so he left, feeling considerably better now that he had gotten _that_ off his chest. He wasn’t joking about having had too much to drink, however. There was a good chance he wouldn’t remember any of that the next morning. _Well, at least she’d be able to go back to being mean to me for no reason_ , he thought, _That should really cheer her up._


	4. A Meeting on the Battlements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric takes Apples aka Inquisitor Revasera to meet and old friend atop Skyhold's battlements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, I said this was random, didn't I? Did I? I don't remember. Well, if I didn't, I'm saying it now: this shit's all out of order! Most of this stuff comes from the false start on a fully realized DAI fic I had attempted, but I thought I'd post it. Cassandra is only mention in this one, sorry. This is the meeting with Hawke on the battlements with the Inquisitor with a few changes.
> 
> First, Carver is with Hawke! Because, I felt like there wasn't a super good reason for him not to be and more of a developer shortcut so they didn't bring in so many old characters.
> 
> Second, the Carver in my headcanon did not stay a templar much longer after the final events of the second game. He stuck around, continued to protect Merrill, and helped Cullen try to maintain order, but when things got dodgy with the Order and Cullen left with the Inquisition, Carver's own faith in the organization in its current corrupted state waned. So, though not currently a apart of the Order, he strives to continue to behave as though he still is. Also, he hooked up with Merrill at some point because awwww!
> 
> Third, as I've mentioned in previous shots, Apples is non-Inquisitor Jacqueline Rose Trevelyan aka Jack aka Jackie, formerly the captain of the ship of the same name (the Jacqueline Rose; she was named after the ship, not the other way around) and serves the Inquisition as one of Cullen's captains; eventually she romances him. And Bright Eyes is Inquisitor Revasera Lavellan aka Evas, Dalish First with a lot of other secret things about her and who eventually romances Solas.

Varric didn’t want to bring Mockingbird into it if he didn’t have to, but he had no choice. That Blighted Bastard was back and it was their mess to help clean up. Besides, she’d be pissed at him if he hadn’t let her know. She’d called Corypheus her legacy once. That was some heavy shit to have to bear, but she was determined. Especially after—well _after_. So now, he was waiting with her on the battlements with Junior and the mutt with two things on his mind: first, he hoped Bright Eyes would learn something useful from their experience with the Elder One, and second, the Seeker was going to kill him. He tried not to think about the second one too much.

Soon enough, he heard the light footsteps that could only belong to the Inquisitor and he turned to greet her. He was shocked and dismayed, however, when he saw who was accompanying her: Apples. Varric smiled, though it was strained, and beckoned for them to join him. _I shoulda been prepared for that one_ , he thought darkly. Bright Eyes had lots of advisors, not all of them official. Chuckles and Apples were her favorite. He guessed he should be pleased that she hadn’t decided it necessary to bring the whole War Council with her. Watching Mockingbird and Curly meet again after so long was guaranteed to be painfully hilarious under normal circumstances, but watching them reunite in front of Apples was guaranteed to only be very, _very_ painful.

“Inquisitor, Jack, meet Hawke, Champion of Kirkwal,” Varric introduced when the women had joined them.

“Though I don’t get much use out of that title anymore,” Mockingbird pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest, and kicking out a hip with a flippant air of trademark sassiness. She was behaving herself thus far, at least.

“And Junior—I mean Warden Carver,” Varric continued, waving a hand toward the mostly stoic Grey Warden.

Junior gave him a sly glance, but didn’t seem offended and, not for the first time, Varric was glad the little shit had finally grown up. “Pleasure, my ladies,” he said respectfully with a little bow of his head.

“Hawke—and Little Hawke—Inquisitor Lavellan,” he added a little flourish with his hand as he gestured to Bright Eyes, “And Ranger-Captain Trevelyan.”

Bright Eyes was, of course, gracious and graceful, as always, employing that elven elegance that Chuckles found so irresistible with full effect. One of the many reasons she was suited to become Inquisitor, even if she had her own reservations about it, herself. She made her Dalish gestures of greeting that Hawke recognized because of Daisy, but looked vaguely confused about because Bright Eyes was so _not_ Daisy. “ _Andaran atish’an._ Skyhold welcomes you both,” she said in that musical voice of hers.

“Thanks.” Awkward shuffling that somewhat resembled an appropriate response. “ _Anda…shan_ back at you.” It was slightly painful to see Mockingbird stumble over that usually quick tongue of hers, but Bright Eyes had that effect on people. Unsurprisingly, Junior nailed it where Hawke failed. After all that _alone_ time he’d been spending with Daisy, he better have picked up a few things. Bright Eyes seemed amused by them both.

Apples, on the other hand, responded more or less the way he had expected her to: she laughed, nodded a greeting to the siblings, and then said to Varric, “Cassandra’s going to kill you.”

Varric sighed. “Don’t I know it.”

Mockingbird cut a sideways glance at him. “Like _literally_ , or…?”

“Could easily be either, really.”

Junior shrugged. “You’re slippery. I’m sure you’ll get out of it somehow.”

“Thanks? Your concern is truly touching.”

“Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for.” Mockingbird snorted at her brother’s joke, offering no assistance to either side. It made Varric smile because it meant things were even better between the siblings than when he had last seen them. That was good. Mockingbird needed something to hold onto besides shit darkspawn legacies, shittier family secrets, shittiest old ghosts, and stupid, _stupid_ blonde apostate mages.

Apples chuckled and Bright Eyes was openly smiling. Varric cleared his throat. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying our little family reunion, I didn’t ask you to come all the way out here just for that,” he said, “I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. We did fight him, after all.” Mockingbird’s eyes grew a little distant at the mention of the ancient darkspawn.

“You already dropped half a mountain on the bastard,” she pointed out, addressing Bright Eyes, “I’m sure anything I could tell you pales in comparison.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Inquisitor said, casually, swinging her arms back to clasp in the small of her back, “You _did_ save an entire city from a horde of rampaging Qunari.” _Oh_ , Varric was surprised, _Guess Bright Eyes is feeling a little saucy today, too. This should be interesting._

Mockingbird chuckled. “I don’t see how that really applies,” she countered, “Or is there a horde of rampaging Qunari involved that I don’t know about?” She looked to Varric. “Have you been leaving out the _good_ details?”

Varric sighed. This was going to be a long conversation. “Well, there is _one_ Qunari,” he admitted.

“Almost qualifies as a horde all by himself,” Apples added.

“Fortunately, he’s on our side,” Bright Eyes assured.

“Though I’m sure he could be persuaded to rampage at you for old times’ sake, if you asked nicely enough,” Varric concluded, smiling at the clockwork snarkiness of their responses combined.

Mockingbird cocked an eyebrow at the three of them with an expression that very clearly stated that she approved. “Hmmm, well, tempting as that is, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline which renders me of very little use to you, Inquisitor,” she lamented, “Despite what the storybooks say, I’m really only good at the one thing. Varric likes to exaggerate.”

Bright Eyes shrugged one shoulder, unphased. “You’ve faced Corypheus before,” she said, “That sounds rather useful to me.”

Mockingbird’s mouth twitched briefly into a frown. “Fought and _killed_ ,” she emphasized, “That’s the shit that worries me.”

“The Grey Wardens had him imprisoned,” Junior explained, “They had used our father’s blood in a ritual to seal Corypheus inside a cell within the Deep Roads. But he could still reach out with his mind and influence the Wardens’ thoughts.”

Apples brow furrowed, a habit she’d learned from Curly, surely. “Define ‘influenced.’”

“Corypheus got into their heads,” Varric clarified, “Messed with their minds. Turned them against each other.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“He sent them after us,” Hawke continued, taking up where her brother left off, “And I didn’t just _think_ I killed him. When the fight was done, he was _dead_ on the ground.” She huffed and shook her head. “Maybe his tie to the Blight somehow brought him back, or maybe its old Tevinter magic—but he was _dead_ , I swear it.”

“No one’s accusing you of being sloppy, Miri,” Varric assured and Mockingbird shot him a look that was disbelieving and maybe a touch annoyed.

“If the Wardens disappeared,” Hawke said, her voice calmer, but her expression tight and serious as Varric had only ever seen it on rare, horrible occasions, “They could have fallen under his control again.”

There was a brief moment of silence as both Inquisitor and Ranger-Captain absorbed that information. They exchanged glances and something wordless passed between them. “If that’s what happened to the Wardens,” Bright Eyes said, “Do you think we can free them?” _Always trying to save everyone she can…_ He doubted it was ever an option for her to abandon anyone with even the remotest chance of redemption. She didn’t even ask about the Warden’s use of blood magic or care how Hawke’s family was tied up in the whole ugly mess. She just wanted answers, wanted solutions to larger problems.

“It’s possible,” Mockingbird sighed, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced herself, “But we need to know more first.” She exchanged glances with Junior. “I’ve got a friend in the Wardens,” she revealed which surprised the hell out of Varric. Apparently, she had been very busy while he was being dragged halfway across Theadus by a grumpy Seeker. “He was investigating something—unrelated for me. His name is Stroud.” She paused and scratched at her eyebrow with a careless flick of her index finger. Her tell. She was far more worried than she was letting on and she already appeared to be pretty worried. Varric’s concern grew. He didn’t know what she had Stroud investigating for her, but he could guess and that made him more nervous because it wasn’t as unrelated as she thought. “The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks.”

“Has it been long since you last heard from him?” Apples asked, undoubtedly already putting together a plan in her head to ferret out Hawke’s missing Warden friend.

“Too long,” Mockingbird confirmed, “Since then, nothing.”

“Corypheus would certainly qualify as corruption in the ranks,” Varric noted, darkly, “Did your friend disappear with them?”

She shook her head. “No. He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood.”

“If you didn’t know about Corypheus, what were you doing with the Wardens?” Bright Eyes asked, that shining gaze of hers roving over Hawke’s face in a way that reminded Varric of an actual bird of prey.

Mockingbird sensed it too and glanced quickly to her brother. “The templars in Kirkwall were using a strange form of lyrium,” Junior stated, his posture straightening. Though he was not wearing the crest of a templar anymore, it was obvious in his bearing. “It was red. I was concerned for my brothers and sisters still in the Order…”

“And I was concerned for Carver,” Hawke interrupted, defensively, “So we poked around. Asked some questions. I hoped the Wardens could tell me more about it. Seemed like something they might know a thing or two about from wandering the Deep Roads.”

Apples gave Junior an unabashed once over that would have made him blush back in the old days, but she wasn’t doing it out of admiration—though Varric suspected she didn’t mind the view, the kid had taken to his training well—she was checking him for any signs of red lyrium corruption she had missed before. “Was it given to you?” she asked bluntly when her examination yielded no obvious results.

Junior shook his head. “No. I—uh—was too green at the time and—not as dedicated to the cause as others were,” he answered.

“They didn’t trust him so they didn’t dose him,” Hawke supplied.

“Partly because Miri’s my sister,” he added, “The Knight-Commander was wary of me.”

Both Inquisitor and Ranger-Captain nodded, satisfied with his answer. “We’ve encountered red lyrium as well,” Bright Eyes said by way of explanation for Apples’ sudden and intense wandering eye.

“Corypheus, charmer that he is, was using it to corrupt the templars and turn them into his slaves,” Apples added. She looked to Junior. “You’re lucky they didn’t trust you.”

The look on Little Hawke’s face said it all, but he said it aloud anyway. “Don’t I know it.”

“Hopefully, my friend in the Wardens will know more,” Mockingbird concluded, wanting to pull focus from her brother. Old, protective habit. But even Varric could see how unnecessary it was and not just because he knew Bright Eyes and Apples wouldn’t do anything to hurt him; Junior was doing a fine job of holding his own in the presence of some of the most powerful women in Ferelden. “And we can share with you what we know.”

The Inquisitor gave a curt nod, her delicate brow furrowed pensively as she mentally reviewed the information they had just exchanged, little though it was. At least they had a lead. “Thank you, Champion and Warden,” she said, coming back to herself with easy grace, “The Inquisition— _I_ appreciate the help.”

“I’m doing this for myself as much as for you,” Mockingbird said with a startling dose of sobriety and sincerity. Junior and Varric both looked to her with surprise and concern. “Corypheus is _my_ responsibility. I thought I’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.” There she was: suicidal, selfless Hawke, posing challenges to Inquisitors and Ranger-Captains without regard to any sense of self-preservation. Not that she had anything to fear from either woman standing before her, if only because they had no reason to become dangerous to her. That was a fantasy fight Varric wasn’t sure he wanted to see. Still, Bight Eyes canted her head in a way that made him feel nervous and Apples was crossing her arms over her chest in clear preparation for a verbal battle.

“Well, until we figure out a way to kill him so he _stays_ dead, I’m sure there’ll be enough killing him to go around,” Varric pointed out to ease the tension. It worked, mostly. Everyone was now more concerned about never being able to defeat Corypheus which put a damper on the mood, but at least they weren’t cocked and aimed at each other, anymore.

Bright Eyes sighed. “Well, I’m sure Madame Montilyet will have rooms prepared for you and your brother during your stay with us…”

“Carver and I are fine in the barracks,” Mockingbird assured, “We don’t want to cause a stir. It’s best everyone just sort of _thinks_ we might be who we are rather than have it confirmed by your ambassador.”

“If that’s what you want, we can get cozy,” Apples offered, “Might have to separate the two of you. Is that a problem?”

“I get enough of her daily,” Junior replied dryly, “I think I can make the sacrifice.”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she pouted, “But I’ll manage somehow.”

“Then I’ll move some shit around. See what I can scare up and let you know,” Apples concluded. She nodded a farewell to them all. “I’ll be briefing the Commander if you need me, Evas,” she said to Bright Eyes and the Dalish nodded in acknowledgement, but she lingered as the Ranger-Captain departed.

“More on your mind, Inquisitor?” Mockingbird prompted.

“Call me Evas,” she offered, “I don’t care for my title, either.”

Mockingbird blinked and glanced at Varric for confirmation as if there was a way to misinterpret what she’d heard. He gave a little shrug. “Alright, Evas,” Hawke said hesitantly, “There something else you need from me?”

She shook her head. “No, not really. Just to ask a more—personal question.”

“How personal?”

Bright Eyes’s mouth twitched into a brief, somewhat nervous smile and she approached the edge of the battlement. Her eyes danced over the figures filling the courtyard and training yard. Only hours before, those people had been gathered beneath her, cheering her glory and naming her Inquisitor. “Does it ever get any easier?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Miriam, not Hawke or Mockingbird, just plain, sometimes terrified, and often heartbroken Miriam looked at the Inquisitor and saw Revasera. She followed her gaze to the people below and knew precisely what she was asking. “I’ll let you know,” she muttered and Bright Eyes nodded, turning on her heel.

“If you need anything, let me or Varric know,” she said, “There are some things I have to attend to as Inquisitor first, but the moment we are ready to head out to Crestwood, you’ll be the first to know. Might take a few days.”

Mockingbird nodded. “Carver and I need to rest up anyway. Bit of a journey to get here.”

“Well, enjoy the tavern, then.” The Inquisitor prepared to leave.

Varric clapped his hands together and smiled. “Not so bad,” he said, happily.

“ _Yet_ ,” Bright Eyes pointed out as she walked away and Varric’s face fell.

“Yeah—I should probably go face the dragon before she starts hunting me,” he sighed, “Come on, Mockingbird, Junior. I’ll take you to the best place to get a drink around here because it’s the only place. There’s just one little thing I have to do before I can join you, though—if I’m not dead.”

The siblings chuckled. “I kind of want to meet this Cassandra, Varric,” Mockingbird purred as she followed him up the stairs, “It’s not often a woman has such sway over you.”

“Oh, she’s been dying to meet you, that’s for sure, but I wouldn’t subject you to the displeasure.”

“She can’t be scarier than Aveline,” Junior objected, fondly. Mockingbird nodded in agreement.

Varric actually grew silent as he thought it over. Aveline was tough—like _really_ tough, like iron tough—but had a soft side that she shared only with Donnic. Maybe Mockingbird caught a glance or two in the moments of her uncertainty—usually concerning her love life—but the Seeker…she was dragon scale tough and dragon claw dangerous: beautiful and impassable. He blinked. When had he started thinking of her like that? He wondered. Empirically, she was attractive for a human. He’d thought so the very first time he set eyes on her back at the Hanged Man when she came to question him. But then she opened that snarling mouth of hers and ruined the whole illusion. He hadn’t thought she was attractive then and not for most of the time he’d been in her company. He cleared his throat. “Oh, she’d give Aveline a run for her money,” he said casually.

“That’s a fight I’d pay to see,” Junior quipped.

“In a mud pit,” Mockingbird added, “Is she pretty, Varric?”

“Uh…”

“What does it matter? They’re half-naked and in mud.” Junior pointed out.

“I didn’t say anything about being naked.”

“You were thinking it and why have mud at all if the armor’s not coming off?”

“You have a point. Smalls only.”

Varric tried very, _very_ hard not to picture the scene. Partly because he never wanted to think of Aveline that way and—he didn’t think he would be able to take Cassandra trying to kill him seriously if he imagined her in her underwear beforehand. _Shit_ , the image stubbornly popped into his mind unbidden and it was not unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you know how the fight with Cassandra goes. I've even added some fun little fluff afterward. This is was mostly about Varric and Hawke...and so is the next one! I've got a Cassandra one cooking on the horizon, though. Don't worry. ;)


	5. Downward Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric meets up for that drink with Hawke after his fight with Cassandra. They catch up a bit before they're joined by a couple of new friends and one old one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still from a larger work, this is the promised drink with Hawke.
> 
> Headcanon notes: Apples is non-Inquisitor Jacqueline Rose Trevelyan aka Jack aka Jackie; she eventually romances Cullen. Cullen had the hots for the elf mage instead of the Amell and had a brief, incredibly inappropriate relationship with Hawke during the events of the second game because they were both looking for a way to run from their problems and apparently they both agreed it was through angry, impersonal sex. Anyway, he's not proud of it and largely wishes it had never happened. Hawke doesn't really care enough about Cullen to care one way or the other, so she more on the meh train.

They left Junior at the bar and headed upstairs with their drinks to Varric’s favorite table. Once there, Mockingbird immediately kicked her feet up on the corner of the table and leaned back in her chair, ruminating over her tankard. “How long’s it been, Varric?” she asked without looking up, “How long have I been on the run?”

“Too long,” Varric answered.

She scoffed and nodded. “I suppose any time at all is too long,” she mused, “Especially in the oh so delightful company of Anders.”

“How is Blondie doing, anyway?” Varric asked, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice and failing.

“About the same as ever,” she replied, shrugging, “Mopey, broody, still on about justice for mages, blah blah blah…”

Varric raised an eyebrow at her cynical tone. “A cause you fully supported, if memory serves,” he pointed out.

“And I still do,” she assured, “But I’m more interested in actually doing something productive about it instead of yammering on about _how_ I would change the world, but not _doing_ anything about it.”

“Blondie did something about it alright.”

Mockingbird frowned. “And it did more damage than good.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“That’s all Anders and I ever were,” she observed, “Trouble in paradise. Toxic.”

Varric pursed his lips. He never thought Blondie was good enough for her, but the angsty mage seemed to make her happy enough so he didn’t say anything to her about it. Maybe he should have. But he doubted it would have made a difference. Blondie, Broody, Choirboy. They all wanted her, but they all wanted to changer her too. He thought maybe Blondie had been the lesser of three evils. Apparently, he was wrong. “How are you holding up?” he asked softly.

Mockingbird finally looked up from her drink and focused her multicolored gaze on him. “In general or about Anders?” she asked.

“Either. Both.”

“Generally, I’m shit, thanks. But about Anders—well—I think I’ve finally gained some clarity on the situation.”

“That’s good, I guess?”

“What he did was unforgivable,” she said sternly, “Not only did he murder innocent people, he showed the world just how dangerous mages could be. He walked a fine line between cohabitation with a spirit and living as an abomination. I saw a difference because of his actions. What he chose to do with his freedom. The clinic. Helping me. _Loving_ me. And then he threw it all away to embody every horror story and nightmare anyone has ever had about a mage. He was the rule, not the exception. He had a chance to show everyone what a free mage looked like—and he committed mass murder instead—and I _helped_.” She emptied her tankard at the conclusion of her rant. “I need another drink,” she sighed and she got up to order another.

Varric watched her go with sad eyes. He remembered when Blondie tricked her into helping him. Even then, that blonde bastard knew what he was planning to do was wrong. If he truly thought his cause was just, he would have told Mockingbird exactly what it was that he was intending. But he had been afraid she would talk him out of it or stop him. Maybe even turn him in. Anders had been a coward and Hawke paid the price for it. She had been so _happy_ when Blondie lied to her about the ingredients he needed to separate himself from Justice. After everything she had lost, her father, her home to the Blight, her sister to an ogre, her mother to a psychopath, and even her brother to the Templars to a certain degree, Anders was supposed to be the one thing she gained. She practically skipped through the sewers trying to find what he needed. And then Blondie took everything she had given him and used it to blow up a building. Varric was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but it hurt too much to dig it out.

“The more I think about it, the more I think I was in denial,” Mockingbird said when she returned carrying an armful of drinks, “I mean, a potion to separate a spirit from a physical body?” She made a face. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You weren’t in denial. You were in love,” Varric replied, eyeing the drinks she lined up on the table in front of him. It had been a long time since he had seen the famous Hawke Downward Spiral.

“Same thing, isn’t it?” she asked, taking a swig from one of the mugs, “You convince yourself that your significant other is someone they’re not so you can go on fucking them with a clean conscious.”

“You’ve been talking to Rivaini again.”

She shrugged. “We write.”

“I take it this means you and Blondie are through?”

She nodded and aggressively pursued the bottom of her tankard. “He knows that I’ll be there if he ever needs me—and if he’s ever really serious about finding a way to separate himself from Justice, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but—I can’t keep putting myself through this hell anymore. Things are broken between us and I refuse to be the only one trying to fix it—especially when he was the one who ruined everything in the first place.”

That was a heavy declaration. Things had been chaotic when Blondie destroyed Kirkwall’s Chantry. Mockingbird had been more or less pretty clear when she spoke to Anders afterward: she wanted him to stay, but he couldn’t help them defend the Circle against Meredith’s Rite of Annulment because it was _his_ actions that condemned the Circle in the first place. It was a fine line, but Mockingbird was all about walking fine lines. Varric knew she didn’t regret fighting the Templars. Hell, he didn’t regret it either. It was the right thing to do. Meredith was crazy and the mages didn’t deserve what she had planned for them, but—there was nothing clean cut about what happened in Kirkwall that day.

Hawke and Anders had to go on the run afterward. Rivaini skipped town on the first ship out. Junior was promoted and able to protect Daisy in the alienage from the other Templars. Broody left to go seek vindication for his hatred of magic elsewhere. Curly granted Aveline dispensation to return to her post as guard captain in light of Meredith’s role in that whole mess. And Varric—well, he was kidnapped and interrogated by a very persistent and grouchy Seeker. But even after all that, Mockingbird wanted to try to make it work. She still wanted to be with Blondie. Wanted to understand what he’d done and forgive him. Now, she was giving up. And that seemed so much worse, somehow, than watching her slowly self-destruct on a doomed love affair.

“Well, Mockingbird,” Varric sighed, “I wish I could say something that would make it all better, but I’m about the last person anyone should be seeking romantic advice from.”

“It’s a good thing I only want to drink you under the table, then,” she quipped, the last word of her sentence almost drowning entirely as she began drinking her _third_ ale. _It’s going to be a bad night,_ he could just tell.

“You definitely got a head-start on me.”

“Get to it, then.”

“Maybe you should slow down. Savor the misery. Ya know?”

“It tastes like shit, Varric. I’d rather gulp it down all at once.”

“That can’t be the first time you’ve said that.”

His joke had the desired effect and she choked on her drink, coughing and laughing at the same time. Her eyes were a little watery from having literally inhaled alcohol, but it was good to see her smile, if only for a second. “Well, you know what they say?” she said when her coughing settled, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

“Rivaini says that,” Varric accused, “I think you’ve been writing to her too much.”

She shrugged. “Isabella’s got more wisdom than anyone gives her credit for.”

“Don’t let her catch you saying that, she’ll never stop trying to school Aveline in the Ways of the Slattern.”

Mockingbird raised an eyebrow. “Donnic might benefit if Aveline listened just a little bit,” she suggested, smirking, “Might put a spring in his step.”

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “There are just some things that shouldn’t be spoken aloud,” he insisted, “And Aveline and Donnic’s love life is one of them.”

“You wrote a whole romance serial based on it!”

“Well—I didn’t say anything about writing about it, did I?”

“You’re such an ass.”

“The most lovable you’ll ever meet.”

“Mmm,” she didn’t disagree, but she seemed to be thinking about something else, “Speaking of lovable asses, how is our favorite woefully damaged Templar holding up these days?”

Varric involuntarily tensed. That was only one of an entire list of questions he was hoping to avoid. “Who? Curly?” he asked, hesitantly. She nodded and Varric took a few long sips to decide how he wanted to answer that question. “Fine. Why?”

“Just curious.” She made a valiant attempt to sound innocent and failed miserably.

“Miri…”

“Oh, I’m in trouble,” she squeaked, “Varric used my real name!”

“It was a bad idea before and it’s an even worse idea now,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, well, he was a bit of a prig, then wasn’t he?” she pointed out, “Now, he serves a Dalish mage—and quite happily, I might add. I saw them laughing together! Laughing. Like they were _friends_! Or…” she stopped, “Oh, Maker, don’t tell me he’s already sleeping with the Inquisitor.”

Varric made an involuntary face. “No, he’s not sleeping with the Inquisitor,” he assured, “She’s getting her kicks elsewhere.”

“And so is Cullen?”

Again Varric hesitated. “I don’t make it a habit to keep a diary about Curly’s love life,” he snapped, “Just leave it alone.”

Mockingbird opened her mouth to press him about it further, but quickly shut it as her attention was directed elsewhere. “Well, well,” she said, “Here comes the man in question—with the Ranger-Captain.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh.” And she started her fourth tankard.

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“Why couldn’t you just tell me he was seeing someone?” she asked irritably.

“It’s none of your business.”

“But I was _asking_ , Varric.”

“Because they’re not together _yet_ ,” he hissed, “And if you go meddling, it might not happen at all, alright?”

She absorbed that information slowly as she drank deeply from her mug. When she set it down, it was half gone and so was her common sense. “So he’s _not_ seeing anyone, then,” she stated.

Varric glowered at her. “ _That’s_ what you got from that?”

She shrugged. “I’m a single-minded sort of woman.”

“So help me, Hawke, if you ruin their chances…” he began, but before he could finish, Mockingbird was waving Apples and Curly over with a big, enthusiastic grin on her face.

“Join us, friends,” she said, raising her ale, “I’ve already started!”

Apples was only too happy to accept. Woman liked her alcohol too much to say no and she was probably the only other person Varric knew who could match Mockingbird drink for drink and survive. Curly, on the other hand, looked absolutely terrified. He had seen a Hawke Downward Spiral. In fact, he was commonly part of the fallout of such an event. She’d get drunk, find him, and rut at it in a dark alleyway—or her house, if they were lucky enough to make it there in time. Varric was sure he only accepted her invitation to drink because he wanted to make sure she didn’t say anything embarrassing.

Once they’d ordered their drinks, Apples settled in the seat next to Varric so she was facing Mockingbird. Curly purposefully avoided taking the seat immediately next to her and sat at the end of the table instead, closer to Apples. _This is going to be bad_ , Varric thought, finishing his drink and reaching for one of the ones Hawke had lined up in front of him. Sure enough, no sooner did the thought cross his mind, did Apples open up her mouth and ask the most loaded question in the history of loaded questions, “So, you two knew each other in Kirkwall. What was our illustrious Commander like back then? As priggish as Varric’s tale claims?”

It was like watching the Temple of Sacred Ashes explode all over again: an utterly horrific and cataclysmic disaster that he could do nothing about. Varric’s eyes scraped toward Hawke, silently pleading with her not to say anything stupid. Curly was doing the same thing, poor guy. Mockingbird smirked and looked at Apples over her mug. “Oh no,” she assured, “He was so much more—valiant than Varric gave him credit for.”

Varric cringed. She was setting up a trap, he could just tell. A little trick to justify oversharing. How could it be her fault if Apples _asked_ her for more detail? He prayed Jack wouldn’t fall for it. But, of course she did, because why wouldn’t she? She had no reason to think Hawke wanted to outplay her. “Oh? And what acts of valiancy did our Commander commit?” she asked.

“Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, Lowtown is not the safest place to be wondering around alone—and drunk,” Mockingbird shrugged, “I can’t tell you how many times Cullen walked me home after one too many at the Hanged Man. Helped me into bed and all.”

There it was. It was out in open now, especially since Curly turned a particularly startling shade of pink. There was no way Apples could miss it now. And she hadn’t. Her face more or less maintained the same expression. She was smiling; she even _laughed_ at the insinuation and cast Curly a look that could almost pass for amusement, but Varric knew better. It was in her eyes. That was jealousy. “Good man,” she declared, slapping Curly on the arm with more force than was strictly necessary, “I guess Kirkwall wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be, after all.” She downed the last of her drink and quickly counted the empty mugs on the table. “Now why don’t you go get me a few drinks, ser?” she asked, “I think I need to catch up to our guest, here.”

Curly didn’t want to. He had sense enough to know more ale was only going to make things worse and he was likely about to say so when Junior showed up with Tiny en tow. “Hey Commander!” the Qunari bellowed, “Good to see you in here having a few instead of just watching Jack drink everyone under the table!”

“I was just about to…” Curly began as he stood, ready to make his escape, but Tiny flung a heavy arm around his shoulders, nearly slamming him back into his seat.

“Aw, come on, Cullen, don’t ruin the party.”

“The Commander was just about to get a few more drinks, Bull,” Apples sniffed, “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

“He better hurry though,” Mockingbird added, “‘Cause I’m working on number five as we speak.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” Tiny declared, “Come on, Cullen. I’ll help you carry the drinks up the stairs.”

Curly looked completely miserable. “It seems I have little choice,” he said.

“That’s the spirit!” Tiny chuckled and Varric watched as they disappeared downstairs to order more alcohol than could ever possibly be wise while Junior plopped into the seat beside his sister. Varric groaned and put his face in his hands. _This is going to be a long night,_ he thought. He just had no idea _how_ long.

“That the Qunari you said could _rampage_ me?” Mockingbird asked.

Varric nodded. “Probably rampage you right on this table if you played your cards right.” It would be better if she was going to go to bed with anyone, that it be Tiny. He was unattached and open to a tumble any time.

The idea appealed to her. He could tell, but she glanced at Apples who was watching Curly and Tiny order drinks. “Maybe another time,” she said softly. She had other prey on her mind that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't end here. One more Varric and Hawke.


	6. Chest Hair Snuggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the Hawke Downward Spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet.

The headache that was roaring through Varric’s head as he laid motionless in his bed could have rivaled the intensity of a dragon. Or perhaps that was hyperbole. He winced at the word hyperbole. _That_ was an intense word. Too intense to think about while hungover. _Ugh, hungover_ , he thought, _I’m getting too old for this shit_. He couldn’t be a professional little brother his whole life, after all. At some point, it would become inappropriate for him to drink all night and sleep all day. But that day had not yet come and he was glad he had requested heavy curtains be installed over the windows of his room. Darkness was so blissful.

 _Andraste’s flaming knickers, what happened last night?_ he wondered as he continued to drool onto his pillow, _Mockingbird was being an ass and outed Curly—and Apples got mad and…Oh no…_ He vaguely remembered the drinking and storytelling contest and wondered if there had been a winner. _And did that have any impact on Curly’s chances with Apples?_ He groaned, now trying to talk himself into getting out of bed to see what kind of damage had been caused in the wake of a Hawke on a bender. He had limited success. Mostly, he managed to stop drooling on his pillow. Then a completely unbidden and unwelcome thought passed through his mind: _…If someone were to kidnap me right now and demand to know where you were, I wouldn’t tell them a damn thing…_

 _Ugh, did I really say that?_ he wondered and he pressed a heavy hand to his face, _I’m never going to live that one down._ But the line had potential. Maybe he could repurpose it for one of his stories. Maker knows his romance serial needed new life breathed into it—badly. Maybe a little bit of honest friendship was exactly what his characters needed to refresh the stale clichés clawing at its unpopularity. He groaned. _Too much thinking…_

Just as he was contenting himself to fall back asleep, he heard the door to his room swing open and someone step inside. He was about to roll over and inform whoever the intruder was that they had the wrong room, but he didn’t. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he already knew who it was and why she was there. So he listened to the sounds of her placing something on his desk. A tray of food, perhaps. It sounded like silverware clinking against china. Then the rustle of her clothes as she removed her armor and kicked her boots into a corner. When that was finished, he heard her bare feet pad against the stone floor as she approached his bed. He felt her draw back the covers and slide in behind him, her arm snaking under his arm to grab a handful of his chest hair as she cuddled him. “Tell me you didn’t do it,” he said without turning to look at her.

“I didn’t do it,” she answered, her voice small and sad, “There is no version of last night that could have ended with me riding Cullen into oblivion.”

“There’s an image.”

“It’s what I’m here for: to brighten your morning with smut.”

He smiled and patted her hand on his chest. “You okay?” he asked.

“No.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“‘Kay.”

“Varric?”

“Yeah, Mockingbird?”

“Can I stay here with you?”

Varric sighed and rolled onto his back, finally looking his friend in the face. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them. She’d been fighting back tears from the looks of it and even as he looked at her, he saw the beginnings of new ones clinging to her lower lashes. She looked depressed and exhausted, a shadow of the laughing, teasing woman he loved like a sister. For the first time in all the years he’d known her, she looked small and fragile. It made his heart ache in the worst way. “Of course, Miri,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and holding her to his chest, “You don’t even have to ask.”


End file.
